Prophet of Moonshae

14

The northman capital of Gnarhelm was, to Alicia, disappointingly small and rustic by comparison to Callidyrr. The city centered around a hundred great log buildings, which Brandon proudly indicated as the lodges of Gnarhelm's sea captains. Many houses of drab, weatherbeaten wood dotted the shoreline and pastures around the lodges. Tracks of dirt led to them, and sheep and goats grazed on the scruffy patches of grass that browned the yards.

Beyond these great lodges, across the grassy moors that spread inland for miles and reminded Alicia of the rolling country of her parents' home in Corwell, hundreds of small farms dotted the land. The barns and pastures looked brown and withered and much less prosperous than those of the Ffolk. Sheep and goats and occasionally cattle or horses managed to eke out a survival from the harsh terrain.

The streets seemed empty, almost deserted. The princess enjoyed the bustling market of Callidyrr, with its crowds, music, jugglers, and booths. Of course, the rain, steadily drumming since her arrival, discouraged such activity here. In Callidyrr, the buildings along shop streets were lined with overhanging arches, sheltering the walk down either side of the road. Gnarhelm offered no such amenity. Still, she had accepted Brandon's offer to tour the town, and she knew it would be fruitless to wait for a cessation of the rain.

"These are the smithies and the wainwright!" the prince explained as they walked along the edge of the main street of mostly hard-packed dirt. The center of the avenue was a morass of ruts, mudholes, and pools of brown water.

Brandon pointed out several great barnlike buildings. Sounds of hammering emerged from one where the doors stood open, and Alicia saw a craftsmen pounding an iron rim onto a spoked wheel. The princess realized that these, the great centers of this capital, were no larger than any of a dozen such shops that could be found throughout the mercantile quarter of Callidyrr. She refrained, however, from speaking of her conclusions, since the prince's pride in his realm was obvious and she had no wish to offend him.

Finally Brandon led Alicia to the waterfront, and here she saw real fire come into the northman prince's eyes. Salmon Bay jutted like a stabbing finger of sea into northern Alaron, and Gnarhelm occupied the shoreline of a sheltered cove near the southern end of the bay. Alicia marveled at the many graceful longships at rest in the dark, gentle waters of the large, natural harbor.

She counted more than a score of the vessels, each nearly a hundred feet in length, with sweeping lines and proudly curved prows. On some, she saw figureheads, many of women, though others depicted great beasts such as an eagle-headed griffon, a bear, or even a leering dragon. The princess watched a crew haul in the anchor of one sleek longship several hundred yards from shore. The sail of the vessel unfurled with a sudden billow, revealing the image of a crimson hawk, wings spread wide. With practiced ease, the helmsman turned the prow toward the mouth of the harbor, and the ship fairly sprang into the bay.

Among the anchored longships, gathered like dogs slumbering among horses, bobbed a number of fishing craft, some with sails hoisted, others tacking out to sea, where they swiftly vanished in the gray haze. Like the longships, these sturdy knarrs were deckless. Crates, nets, buoys, and baskets filled the hulls of the smaller fishing vessels. Great sheds at the other end of the dock emitted the unmistakable smell of fish, and Alicia felt a sense of relief when Brandon led her in the other direction, along the length of the solid wharf.

Beside the long pier stretched an area where the princess saw the bony outline of a new longship, the keel formed from a trunk of a gigantic mountain fir. Even in the partial state of the vessel's completion, she recognized a grand ship, larger than any of those currently within the bay. Hull boards ran partway up the ribwork, but she saw that the gunwales lay far above the unfinished section.

Piles of logs lay nearby, and shirtless northmen, their hair constrained by long braids down their backs, labored at shaving these into planks. Other men carried the lumber to the skeleton framework, where still more workers skillfully formed the boards to fit the sleek shape of the hull.

"She's beautiful," Alicia said sincerely.

"And she will be mine," Brandon replied. For once, the pride that had filled his voice with boasts faded into the background, replaced by a reverent sense of awe that the woman found very compelling.

"What's her name?"

Brandon smiled, his eyes distant. "I haven't chosen one yet. It will be an important decision."

The princess sensed the pride in his voice, and it seemed to soften the warrior in her eyes. She remembered Mouse and Brittany and her own fast chariot, and she understood how Brandon felt about his ship.

"Look out there," said the prince, indicating one of the largest longships currently floating in the bay. The ship's prow curved into the sweeping figure of a long-beaked bird. "That's the Gullwing. She's been my ship for five years now, and a proud vessel she is."

"The hulls are so low," Alicia observed. "It's amazing the waves don't pour inside!"

"We have to bail now and then," Brandon laughed, stepping so close to her that she could feel the heat of his body beside her through the damp chill of the air. The princess had a sudden desire to board the ship, to feel the smooth hull slide over the waves of the wide sea. With the prince of Gnarhelm at the helm, nothing would be safer-or more exciting.

As if reading her mind, Brandon turned to her. "Perhaps when our business is concluded you'll allow me to carry you back to Callidyrr in the Gullwing."

"I'd like that."

Alicia looked at the waterfront again and realized that she saw the heart and soul of Gnarhelm here. No wonder the streets had seemed so plain, the shops and houses mere structures of log, with little adornment and no sense of permanence, entirely unlike the great stone edifices of her own home city. Why should these people devote such efforts to their landbound dwellings? Now she sensed, for the first time, a thing she had long been taught but had never really understood: The northmen looked to the sea for everything-for their homes, their sustenance. . even, in times past, for their wives. As a daughter of the Ffolk, Alicia had been reared with tales of young women, during her mother's day, seized by northern raiders and carried away to lives in lodges just like these.

Finally she began to understand the neighbors of her people, and in that knowledge, there was no fear, but rather an exciting kind of anticipation.

Yak, Beaknod, and Loinwrap made their gruff farewells to the rest of the tribe and then started for the shore. The great war chief, resplendent in his cat's-head cape with its grinning, fanged helm, desired to depart with little formality.

"Where do we go once we get in the boat?" asked granite-faced Loinwrap, none too enthusiastic about the impending voyage. Yet, as the strongest giant in the band, Loinwrap was indispensable to Yak's mission should they be received with other than open arms.

"To a place where men live," Yak replied. "There we tell them what has happened, so that they know it is not firbolgs who make war upon them!"

Earlier, Yildegarde had found a fishing boat of the northmen stored between concealing rocks. It had escaped the notice of the sahuagin, and thus the hull remained intact. Now the trio of males made their way to the little craft.

"This will carry us? In those waves?" inquired Beaknod, with an anxious look at the gray swells beyond the shore.

"Quit whining. You two come in case we fight, not so I have conversation, just like at my own hearth. Now let's go."

Awed by the leering skull of the beast and also by the knotting muscles in Yak's shoulders, the other two firbolgs complied. In moments, they cast the boat away from shore, and it was immediately seized by the wind.

Perhaps the goddess smiled slightly from the depths of her long sleep, for though the gales and storms raged around them, with swells rising like mountains on all sides, the three land-dwelling giants ran before the wind, riding a following sea to the southwest.

"I'm off to Callidyrr," announced the Earl of Fairheight as he broke his fast with his sons. "I depart before noon."

Hanrald, though he had overheard his father's plans the previous night, feigned surprise. "You'll carry word about the northmen, I presume?"

"What? Oh, of course," said his father, avoiding the knight's eyes. "Also I'll have a word with the queen regarding the excavations of Granite Ridge."

Hanrald wanted to shout his accusations, his suspicions, at his paternal lord, but he forced himself to hold his tongue. In the first place, he didn't know what accusations to make, and secondly he judged that the time was not yet right.

"I leave the tending of the estates in Gwyeth's care," continued Blackstone. "See that the dwarves don't slack off. They've been grumbling about the hours and the wages again! Enough of this and I'll send the whole bunch back to the Sword Coast and hire myself a new batch of engineers!"

Hanrald knew this to be an empty boast, for the Blackstone mines employed the most skilled tunnel-working dwarves found anywhere along the coast, or a thousand miles inland, for that matter. The trouble, in any event, was that the dwarves realized their worth and insisted on being compensated accordingly.

"And the Moonwell," said Blackstone, turning to address Gwyeth. "Send a squad of men up to that accursed pond. Have them log the cedars and burn the brush. I want these rumors of a miracle stopped!"

"Aye, Father," Gwyeth agreed, his eyes flashing.

"And you, Hanrald-the cooks tell me we have no venison. Go and slay us a stag."

"Certainly." The knight admired his father's ruse. Because of the disappearance of the cantrev's hounds, the hunt for deer would be a challenging and time-consuming one. The request would have kept him from Blackstone for some time-if he had had any intention of making it.

Hanrald found the discussion an interesting charade, since the pair had already made their plans the previous night. The knight's mind clicked through plans of his own, events to occur as soon as his father departed the cantrev and his brother began the task the earl had assigned.

"See that you tend to your duties, especially as regards that Moonwell. This sorcery disturbs me. It must be disposed of quickly. Pull some of the guards off the mine crews to take care of it. I can spare a few men-at-arms."

The earl blotted egg from his beard and rose from the table, still addressing Gwyeth. "Get out to the foremen's stand this morning. I want you to understand what's happening up there."

Hanrald, already forgotten by his father, turned to Gwyeth. "And how fares my brother? I trust that your wound heals cleanly?"

"Don't worry about him," grunted the lord, scowling. "You've enough of your own to tend to."

As the earl returned to his chambers, Hanrald went to the stables himself, but instead of taking a light archer's mount for the hunt, he found his loyal groomsman and told him to quietly ready his war-horse for a journey, letting no one know his intent. Then Hanrald returned to his own rooms, there to gather the few items he would need for his ride.

He had debated about his destination, for first it had seemed to him that he must go to Callidyrr. But several factors had changed his mind.

For one, his father rode along that same road, to the same place, and the son intended to keep his mission a secret from the earl-in the same manner, he reflected, as Blackstone himself sought to deceive Hanrald. But Hanrald also knew that the king was absent, and the queen, according to his eavesdropping, slumbered in an unnatural trance, not knowing what occurred around her.

The ranking member of the royal house, he knew, would thus become the princess Alicia, and she would not be found in Callidyrr. Instead, as far as Hanrald knew, she was still up in the Fairheight Mountains. Perhaps she and her companions had been captured by northmen-a thought that chilled him to the bone. The knight of Blackstone felt clear in his purpose: He would go to the High Princess with his tale of treachery.

Some hours later, the earl and a party of guards trotted from the manor, on the road to Callidyrr. Shortly afterward, Gwyeth rode into the cantrev to assemble and detach a small party of men to the Blackstone Moonwell.

As soon as they had left, Hanrald completed his preparations. He donned his armor of burnished steel and even his heavy helmet, though he would ride with the visor of the faceplate raised. His groom had prepared his steed and stood waiting beside the war-horse, holding Hanrald's lance and his stout shield. A cloak of blue cloth covered the horse, matching the knight's silken overshirt.

"Good luck, my lord!" stammered the youth, his face beaming with pride.

"I have gone to hunt a very large stag," he told the lad, adding a wink. "At least, that's what you'll say to explain my departure."

"Aye, Sir Hanrald!" The fellow saluted sharply as Hanrald hoisted himself into the saddle by means of a wooden step. The knight took his lance and raised it. From the tip fluttered a pennant bearing the Blackstone emblem of two swords crossed over a square shield.

On impulse, Hanrald reached up and tore the silken flag away. He cast it to the ground and grinned at the shocked look on his squire's face.

"From now on," he said, "I ride under no banner but my own."

Then he kicked his armored heels, and the ground in the courtyard shook as his massive charger trotted through the manor. A ray of sun somehow poked its way through the tiniest gap in the clouds, and in the squire's eye, Hanrald's armor glinted like silver for a moment before the fog and the rain closed in again and buried him in the haze.

A full day passed before King Svenyird could find time in his busy schedule to interview the princess from Callidyrr. Alicia had enjoyed the time, the morning spent with Brandon, walking through the town. In the afternoon, she went for a stroll along the shore with Tavish and Keane prior to the meeting with the king.

"I wonder what happened to Newt," Alicia said to them. "I haven't seen him since that first night in Brandon's camp."

"I think the little fellow's gone back home," suggested Keane, his tone indicating that for once the mage thought very highly of the faerie dragon's intentions.

"He'll do that," Tavish agreed. "He's not much for large groups of people or journeys to cities and the like."

"He's not the only one. I haven't had a good night's sleep since we left Callidyrr," complained Keane as they wandered among great trunks of pine, beside the rocks that lined the shore of Salmon Bay. "They gave me some boards and a pad to sleep on, but the straw had gone to mold, and I threw it away!"

"It's good for your spine," teased Alicia. "You get too hunched poring over your tomes all the time."

Keane looked down, his face flushed, and the young woman realized that her remark had truly stung him. Why? She didn't know; it was the kind of thing she said to him all the time.

"To the King of Gnarhelm," said Tavish smoothly but firmly. "What will you say to him?"

"I'll tell him about the golem. . and I'm sure Brand has already told him about the attack by the archers. I hope to learn if he knows of any other enemies that might deserve the blame for this mischief!"

"Is there no different reason we have come here, then?" inquired Keane, an edge to his tone.

"The princess knows her mind, I expect," said Tavish, gratifying Alicia. "Now let's get to the lodge. It's not too many hours until sunset."

But they found, as they returned to Gnarhelm, that the town was already in an uproar. Rumors raced through the streets, reflected in the looks given to Alicia and her companions as they approached the royal lodge.

"What is it?" she demanded, confronted by the scowl of a warrior from Brandon's band.

"You Ffolk!" he replied, his tone surly but his eyes downcast. "Word has just arrived. An army, under your king's banner, has invaded Gnarhelm!"

Danrak soared to the north in the body of a white gull, not quite believing that he actually flew, or indeed that his body had changed shape. Gradually, however, he accepted the fact that the talisman of Isolde had worked magic upon him.

He shrilled his delight, a harsh cry that swiftly vanished into the limitless expanse of gray sea. He dove, skimming nimbly above the wave tops, bobbing over each restless, foam-crested swell and then swooping into the troughs, racing with dizzying speed over the deep, gray-black water.

For a time, he flew northward, realizing that he simply needed to extend his wings to glide effortlessly along the eddies of the storm-tossed air. For many hours, past the sunset and through the blackest part of the night, the druid glided and sailed, leaving the coast of Gwynneth as a distant memory.

Dawn came, gray and stormy as ever, and Danrak flew through squalls of rain. Once hail pounded him, but he dove away and escaped with nothing more than bruises along his wings and back.

Finally he passed a rocky shore and veered slightly toward the east. He remembered the talisman from Lorn, and the way it had marked his path when he threw it. First north for a long way, but then the stone had veered to the right. Now, as the coastline passed below him, he understood and banked his own course from north to northeast.

Soon crags of granite marked the ground below him, and these grew and expanded like the tail of some horned reptile merging into a broad, plate-studded back. By midday, the gull reached a range of mountains that loomed high enough to challenge his presence in the sky, rending the overcast with their stone-edged crags.

Now, Danrak knew, he was getting close. He dove, darting along a sheer crest and surprising a snow fox in its deadly pursuit of a quail. The gull swept over a final ridge, and there below him he saw it-the thing he had never seen before in his life, but to which the will and power of the goddess now brought him: a Moonwell, in the verdancy of life.

The small vale in this gray and apparently lifeless range fairly burst with vitality. A grove of tall, lush cedars shaded the lower shore of the pond, where a crystalline stream splashed outward, sparkling even under the cloudy skies.

Silently, reverently, the druid-gull descended through a series of wide circles. Now that he had reached his goal, Danrak was reluctant to land and abandon the magic of Isolde's talisman, for the feather had vanished in the casting of his shape-change, and like the eye of direction, it could not be used again.

Instead, for a time, Danrak soared and watched. His keen gull's eyes allowed him to see details in the vale: the blossoming violets and daisies in the meadows, the lush lilies along the shore. He looked into water as clear as glass and saw plump trout swimming lazily below the surface.

Only then did he notice the people. Several of them knelt by the pool, their hands clenched in prayer. He saw several more humans walking steadily up the dusty track that led to the vale. Some of these hobbled on crutches, and one wore a bandage across his face, concealing his blinded eyes. A slowly growing band collected around the restored well, here to share the miracle of the Moonwell's rebirth.

Danrak himself felt a choking swell of emotion. He could no longer doubt the vision that had gathered the druids and had sent him on this quest, for here was the proof before him. A small, subtle sign it was, but it gave clear indication that the power of the Great Mother was not entirely gone from the world. He squawked, the only noise he could make in his current form, but it was a profound cry of joy.

Finally he came to rest on a rock, well up the valley side, away from the pool. As his human form returned, Danrak dropped prone behind the rock and continued to watch the humans he had spied around the shore of the well.

The druid felt a surprising vitality in his arms and legs as his body nestled in the scant shelter. He clenched and unclenched his fingers, relishing their wiry strength. Stretching, he felt the power in his wrists and his shoulders. Indeed, Danrak felt more alive than he ever had before.

A commotion caught his eye, and he looked down the rude trail that began, or ended, at the shore of the well and followed the descending stream, eventually, Danrak assumed, to flow past some mountain community of the Ffolk. Now he saw a party of men-at-arms ascending that trail, roughly pushing the hobbling pilgrims out of the way.

A half dozen of the warriors marched toward the Moonwell, each wearing a black tunic over his chain mail shirt. On the breast of the tunics was emblazoned a crest, and as the men drew closer, Danrak identified the symbol as a shield, with a pair of crossed swords below it. But then something else caught his eye, and his blood chilled: Each of the armed men wore a sword but carried over his shoulder a stout double-bladed axe-not a battle-axe.

A woodsman's axe.

Shuddering in fright, the druid looked at the massive cedars that towered above the pool. Instinctively he knew that these were the targets of the axemen.

As he watched, some of the pilgrims tried to stand in the way of the men-at-arms. The leading warrior bashed them aside with his steel-gauntleted fist, while drawn swords encouraged the unarmed pilgrims to stay back.

Now the druid's mind raced. He had to do something! Stealthily he crawled from behind his boulder and darted to a nearby shrub. From here, he advanced another twenty feet to the concealment of a great pile of boulders. As he moved, however, he saw the men approach the nearest of the great cedars. The pilgrims watched in horror, gathered in a circle but fearing to intervene.

In moments, the crack-crack of sharp blades biting into wood echoed through the vale as three of the men wielded their axes in fast cadence. The other three stood, with swords drawn, warily watching the bedraggled onlookers. The latter, Danrak saw, numbered more than twenty, but most were very old or crippled, and a few were children.

Chips flew from the broad trunk in a yellow shower, swiftly gathering in a pile surrounding the foot of the tree. Belatedly it dawned on the druid that the soldiers would think him but another scruffy-looking pilgrim, and he rose from his hiding place and walked boldly toward the thin crowd.

Still his mind churned, examining and discarding several of the varied talismans he carried about him. One, he knew, would be helpful, a dried powder made from the stingers of a hundred hornets, if he could only find the final ingredients for the spell.

"This'll make a fine blaze for the earl's hearth!" boomed a guard, taunting the Ffolk who watched dumbly.

"Aye," agreed another, brandishing his sword, his voice an evil chuckle. "We'll kill us some farmer's ox and have steak for the manor tonight!"

Danrak joined the Ffolk who watched, taking the arm of a withered crone and aiding her to sit on a flat rock. Her feet, he saw, bled from many sores, for she had climbed the rugged mountain trail without shoes.

Then, beside her foot, he saw the things he needed: bees, several of which buzzed from blossom to blossom amid a patch of plump clover. Danrak stood, trying to appear casual, and realized that the great cedar was near to toppling. He saw that it would fall away from the onlookers and was satisfied. Patiently he watched and waited.

An awful, mourning creak shot through the vale, and the top of the tree swayed. The giant trunk leaned, almost imperceptibly at first. The three axemen scampered away and stood with their backs to the pilgrims, looking up as the huge cedar slowly gained momentum. The guards, too, stared upward, all attention focused on the tree.

The creaking grew to an earsplitting shriek as the trunk broke free from its stump. The massive timber gained momentum until it struck the ground with a pounding smash that shook the earth.

At the same time, Danrak pinched and released his talisman, the fine dust fluffing through the still air, then settling across the clover where the bees labored so diligently. The men of Blackstone still looked at the colossus they had felled, clapping each other on the shoulders and boasting as if they had slain a dangerous giant.

Immediately, as the dust touched the striped hairs of their backs, the bees darted upward, buzzing angrily. Three of them zoomed toward Danrak.

But the druid turned and looked at the six armed men who had already begun to select their next victim. He had faith in the talismans now, faith that he admitted he lacked when first he had embarked from Myrloch Vale. Now his attention focused on the target, and his word, though he did not shout, reached the primitive hearing of the insects.

"Attack!"

The crone looked up in astonishment as the shadows flashed overhead, and the high-pitched buzzing of the insects quickly became a deep, resonant drone. One of the men heard it and turned to locate the source of this annoyance.

He screamed in a voice taut with panic. The bees darted toward him, full of singleminded fury and armed with sharp, venomous stingers, no longer the tiny insects the druid had observed among the clover. Now each was more than two feet long and flying as fast as a diving eagle.

In another second, the men fought wildly, swinging their axes and swords at the giant insects. The bees darted past and then separated, each diving toward the six humans from a different angle. The droning sound of their wings resonated from the rock walls of the vale, filling the valley with the deep, unnatural hum.

"Look out!" cried one of the men, and then his voice became a strangled cry for help as a huge insect struck him full in the face.

The force of the blow pounded the man to the ground. He lay, stunned and groaning, as the great bee settled to his chest, its stinger poised over the unprotected abdomen. A pair of his fellows leaped at the creature, and one stabbed with a sword, brushing the stinger aside at the last moment.

The bee rose angrily into the air and darted toward the swordsman, who struggled desperately to hold the creature at bay. His companions fought the persistent approaches of the other two bees and could offer him no aid.

"Run!" cried Danrak. "Run to safety!"

The words were like a rope thrown to a drowning man. The swordsman turned from the bee, leaped over the trunk of the felled cedar, and raced down the path, away from the Moonwell. The bee dove after him but quickly turned to join its two companions in harassing the other men.

The remaining guardsmen needed no further encouragement. In a mass, they scrambled away, casting their axes to the ground and sprinting down the trail. The bees followed for a hundred paces before abruptly losing their rage. Instead, they bobbed and drifted lazily across the meadows, which still burst with an array of blossoms.

The crone looked up at Danrak, squinting wisely. Her face was withered, and one of her eyes was missing, the socket grown shut behind crude stitchwork. When she smiled, she revealed two bare gums, with not a tooth to be seen.

But she smacked her lips and cackled, relishing the delight of a secret shared. Danrak offered her his arm, leading her to the Moonwell, and when she washed her feet there, they no longer bled.

"What charges are these?" Alicia demanded, storming toward King Olafsson's throne. "Who claims that the Ffolk have attacked you?"

The great lodge had fallen silent when the princess, flanked by Tavish and Keane, entered the building. Nevertheless, the trio had heard the furor from well beyond the walls. Keane had tried to hold Alicia back, but she had insisted on confronting the situation before it got out of hand. Her arguments had prevailed.

"Serious charges." The King of Gnarhelm spoke with great solemnity. "Made by my cousin, King Dagus of Olafstaad."

Alicia's eyes flicked to Brandon, who stood on the king's left. The prince's mental anguish showed plainly, but his chin was set in a line of stone. Next she turned to the king's right.

There, she guessed, stood King Dagus. The grizzled warrior was older and larger than his cousin from Gnarhelm. The visiting king's face was covered with scars, his posture crooked. He glared at Alicia with ice-blue eyes over a frost-colored beard, and she had to suppress a shiver. She noticed that the monarch's left arm ended at the elbow.

Rumbles of anger rose from the packed lodge of northmen. Feeling a sense of growing helplessness, Alicia saw Knaff the Elder's face twist in fury. King Svenyird himself regarded her with hostility.

"An army of knights, flying the standard of the Great Bear, attacked northward along the west coast of Alaron!" shouted King Dagus, his tone full of accusation.

"From where?" Alicia demanded.

"They march north from Callidyrr, sacking and looting as they go. They butchered an entire village in the dark of the night, another in the gray haze of dawn! They burn and they rape and they kill! Aye, and I fought them myself-killed one and watched another slay my son! They spoke your language, they wielded your weapons! Do you dare to say they were other than the Ffolk?"

"I dare to say they did not fly my father's flag in his name!" Alicia declared, unflinching before the northman's anger. "They are my enemies as surely as they are yours!"

"Too many lies!" bellowed Knaff the Elder. "My son dead. . good people slain in their beds. . how long do we delay our vengeance?"

"Don't you see?" cried Alicia. "Someone wants us to do this-to fight, to turn on each other!"

"Words-where is the proof?" demanded King Svenyird, his face flushed with anger.

"Wait!"

The single word, barked by the Prince of Gnarhelm, somehow penetrated the great lodge, and the bellicose northmen settled back to listen amid continuing rumbles of discontent.

"Sire! My people! Face this enemy with your minds as well as your might! Listen to the princess and think: Why should the Ffolk make war upon us? If they do, for some reason we cannot guess, we'll fight them. But if they don't, and we've been deceived, then we'll hurl ourselves into a war without cause!"

"But where is proof either way?" asked Brandon's father. Alicia noticed, with relief, that the king's face had returned to its normal ruddy complexion.

"I will sail tomorrow, in the Gullwing, to confront these knights. They are near Olafstaad, on the coast. I hope to bring them to battle within two days. And when I do, we'll get the answers we seek."

"I sail with you!"

"And I!"

A chorus of cries greeted the prince's declaration, but he gestured with both hands, calling for silence. Slowly the boisterous northmen quieted.

"When I return, I suspect that the outcome will not be war between the Ffolk and ourselves. No! Instead, I shall sail the lady princess to Callidyrr and meet with the High King of the Ffolk. There I will gain a peace that will continue for many years ahead-years of profound happiness and joy." Brandon's eyes, shining with emotion, came to rest upon the princess. He continued, speaking loudly, but Alicia sensed that he was talking directly to her.

"For when I meet him, I intend to ask King Kendrick to grant me the greatest treasure in his realm-the hand of his daughter in marriage! Let Gnarhelm and Callidyrr be linked by the blood of their king and queen!"

Great shouts, bellowing accolades and frenzied whoops thundered around Alicia, but somehow the noise seemed to be very faint, as if it came from someplace far away. Her mind tried to shake itself, to think, but she could not.

And then, as the noise began to intrude, driving against her temples and threatening to press her to the ground, her temper flared. It began with disbelief, and then shock, and quickly progressed to outrage. How dare he! She looked at him, furious, as he smiled back at her, somehow oblivious to the emotion contorting her expression.

The princess stepped forward, anger sweeping through her body, tensing her muscles and bringing fiery words into her throat. Alicia barely sensed Keane's hand on her arm, restraining her, and she whirled on her tutor.

But at the look on his face, she paused, her fury slowly cooling. Keane's expression was shocked, his skin pale. He glared at Brandon, his face twitching with ill-concealed hatred, but still he held the princess back from verbally attacking the Prince of Gnarhelm. Abruptly she shook him, off but the interval had been enough. Harsh words against the prince's arrogant self-assurance that would certainly have ended hopes of peaceful cooperation, remained unspoken.

For a moment, the entire lodge seemed to whirl about Alicia, a mass of confusing noises and sights. Knaff the Elder still railed about treachery, while many of the younger northmen shouted approval of Brandon's brave words and cast envious eyes over the princess's face and body. Alicia felt Tavish's arm around her shoulders and leaned against the older woman, grateful for her strength.

Then the tumult settled for a moment as the lodge door burst open with an implosion of wind and rain. A bedraggled warrior stood, sopping wet from his post on the waterfront. He raced toward the throne and cast himself on the floor.

"Sire!" he cried, raising his face to his king. "Firbolgs! They attack Gnarhelm even as I speak!"

"The giant-kin!" cursed Svenyird, leaping to his feet. "Do they come from the highlands or along the shore?"

"Neither, Your Majesty! I swear on the honor of my father, they do not march by land! Nay, lord-these firbolgs attack us by sea!"

Musings of the Harpist

This is one of those times when the gentle bard must sit back and quietly reflect upon the pace of events around her.

First we shall have a war, then we will not-at least, not for now. I never tire of the lively debate around a strong monarch's throne, but this matter is too confusing for easy settlement.

Next a royal marriage, proposed for the dear child of my king and queen! Alicia's face flushed at the announcement-the strong-willed young woman is indeed her mother's daughter! Though the proposal wasn't made in the most romantic of fashions, I still wonder if the princess objects more to the manner of the question than to its substance.

And finally an invasion of firbolgs! Firbolgs? By sea? Very strange indeed! The next thing you know, it will stop raining and the sun will shine again!